It makes me a slice of over-processed Americana.

 

Self-loathing is the worst kind of narcissism

Believing I'm so great that I could somehow be better than I am.

 

Radical changes are ripping my life apart

And all I can do is stare at them with no remorse.

 

I'm not sorry, and that scares me.

Was all my former love just a test designed to make you fail?

The odds were certainly against you.

 

Is there anything left to say that isn't yet a recycled cliche?

Now the suicides of the world hang in limbo while my own wounds fester instead of healing.

 

Solitude is a worthy foe.

Mean and unrelenting, he won't drop his guard for a second.

Bastard.

 

I could sweep you away with angelic proclamations

And you would love until you hate me

And the reality of the moment settled on your conscious mind.

 

Don't worry.  It would only end in heartache anyway

When I fulfilled your dreams

And you left because you hated yourself stronger than I could love you.

 

Vermont winters are so long, especially in the shortest month

But raisins still dry in the sun, kissed by God's omnipotent spying gland.

 

Always alone we can never hide.

I wonder if I'll stand on Judgement Day

Or will I have to crawl to the podium of destruction and brimstone.

 

It's a good thing somebody stalked the prophets and took notes, or I'd have no idea where lay all my faults.

 

I want to touch you, my friend.

I yearn to be part of and one with you.

I want to feel why you're crying without tears

And I want you to know I'm crying, too.

I always cried for you.

I wonder did you ever cry for me?

I would know then that you loved me.